


Fuel the Silence

by Spaghettoi



Series: my varied-canon-compliance dreamsmp works [3]
Category: DreamSMP, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, post finale/november 16th streams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27734554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettoi/pseuds/Spaghettoi
Summary: Phil breathes, and Techno can practically see the paternal animal reawaken in his chest when he inhales. “What in the ever-lovingfuckwere you thinking?”He could be honest. He could sayefficiencyortactoryou, you, you- and he’s not sure if Phil would ever forgive him for it.“They’re still kids,” Phil continues. “You - you’re all still kids, really. But they’re both just boys.”“It’s not like I didn’t warn them,” Techno says.Phil winces. “I know. I just - Christ, mate.”-Wilbur blows L'manburg to shreds in one simple push. Techno gets rid of the rest. Phil finds him after to see if there's anything left worth salvaging.
Relationships: shippers dni - Relationship
Series: my varied-canon-compliance dreamsmp works [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064765
Comments: 22
Kudos: 238





	Fuel the Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WreakingHavok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/gifts).



> shoves you towards WreakingHavok this man beta'd for me and i would give my life to him, go read his recent fics theyre a fucking doozy man 
> 
> also listen to "for a moment, i was lost" it's an album by amber run and it fuels my little brain

When he walks away from the sunny clarity of L’manburg’s new chasm, Technoblade does not pause. There’s something infinite in the way the canyon spans; the water of the lakes stretches out to the sunset, holding it buoyant above the waves, gushing down into the still-smoking crater until the rock sizzles. It won’t ever fill, but the glare of the bloodied sun against the water makes it feel like the world itself has died to the sunlight. 

The withers were a nice touch, he’d like to think. L’manburg is missing with the light behind Tommy’s eyes - with the steadiness of Tubbo’s hands - and yet still, he feels there’s a bit of a job to be done. Pogtopia is a mountain to level in the opposite direction, self-righteous and dug into the ground already, begging to be pried up and scattered. He takes another step and winces at the pressure dug into his leg. Another day, he decides, and treks home with his sword drug behind him and his armor burning holes into his skin. 

Yes, the withers were a nice touch. It’d taken ages to gather the materials - the skeletons tended to be fragile things, clattering to the floor and promptly shattering into shrapnel, and so his weeks of traversing nether fortresses had left him with only seven skulls and an entire nation to level. He’s thankful he hadn’t had to do it alone. The explosions paired off nicely, twinly in nothing but chaos inciting a strict parallel to the men who set them, and so he thinks that maybe Wilbur will be proud of him. 

His trident makes light work of the descent back into his base. He feels properly waterlogged when he steps inside, sealing the entrance behind him with only the steady and unending drip of pinked lake water to fill the silence. 

Good to be back, he thinks. Good to be back.

The sword goes on the wall. The shield does, too, and all of his potions back into their proper places. He managed not to shatter any in the process. Crossbow in his enderchest, its stack of firework rockets with it, and the rest of the junk he’d collected during the explosion is thrown haphazardly into the chests of his base. He’s acutely aware of the empty spaces of his inventory, and even more aware of the armor that he can’t be bothered to pry off. It’s a long and dull sigh as he turns his ax in his hands and throws an odd piece of meat into the furnace. Off to bed with him, then. Dinner and sleep and Wilbur in the morning, the war left fogged and acidic behind them.

“Techno?” And it’s Phil’s voice that cuts through the silky quiet of his base, registered just slow enough for the blade of Techno’s ax to settle above his collarbones. “Aw, hell, mate,” Phil says, hands held up in front of him in a manner almost placating. Techno feels his jaw tighten. “I’m not here to hurt you, Jesus Christ.”

“What, just to tell me off, then?” 

“Only a little,” he says. His familiar nervous laugh bubbles out of his throat before the ax digs into the skin there. “Okay, look -”

“I don’t regret it,” Techno snaps, instantly on the defensive.

“I know,” Phil says. “I wouldn’t either.”

There it is. There’s the Phil he knows - the Phil he grew up with, packed dense and nostalgic into Techno’s dithering underwater hideout. Techno can see it now, can remember the way Phil used to pull him close and tell him about places too fantastic to be real, see the way his eyes would light up as he talked about breathing life into a fantasy. About the area he would have to clear -

About the TNT he would use. 

“Talk,” he says, “before I kick you out.”

Phil breathes, and Techno can practically see the paternal animal reawaken in his chest when he inhales. “What in the ever-loving  _ fuck _ were you thinking?”

He could be honest. He could say  _ efficiency _ or  _ tact _ or  _ you, you, you _ \- and he’s not sure if Phil would ever forgive him for it. 

“They’re still kids,” Phil continues. “You - you’re all still kids, really. But they’re both just boys.”

“It’s not like I didn’t warn them,” Techno says. 

Phil winces. “I know. I just - Christ, mate.”

“I assume Wilbur's already had this talk?”

“Wilbur's dead,” Phil says simply, without hesitation.

Techno thinks the world might be crumbling around him. The finality in it leaves him dumb, and yet there’s nothing to point towards Wilbur’s being gone completely. He feels struck - feels as if the blade of the ax is pressed against his own throat, not Phil’s - so he tears it away and tosses it onto his bed and prods at the fire in his furnace.

Phil watches him, almost amused but decidedly sour, hands still held out in front of him. Techno can almost imagine a chasm akin to L’manburg’s spans the inches between them, a crumbling and cracked ravine that stretches infinitely down to hell, carved from ice and just wide enough around to cradle a body. 

“How did you even get here?” Techno asks eventually, around the lump in his throat.

“Tommy gave me directions,” Phil says. “I just - I wanted to see you.”

“Everybody does,” Techno says begrudgingly. When he turns, Phil is stood with an open-armed invitation, wings unfurling behind him.

Techno stares. Phil smiles at him, something like hope chiseled into the corners of his mouth. He takes a small step forward, and Techno decides that he at least owes his father a damn hug. 

“Missed you, kid,” Phil says, quiet in his ear. The height difference is a bit awkward, but with a bit of stooping and a couple of tiptoes they make it work. Something soft fills the cavern of his chest when Phil wraps his wings around them.

“Sure,” Techno says. “Missed you too.”

When he finally pulls away, Phil’s grin spans all the way across his face in a sole moment of blissful calm. “Can't believe you're still fuckin’ growing,” he says, taking Techno’s face in his hands. “Seems like every time I see you you've gained another three inches.”

“I think you're shrinkin’,” Techno says.

“I think you're being a dick,” Phil butts back. He gives him a once-over, hesitating on his soot-stained chestplate. “Jeez, Techno, you’re a mess.”

“What can I say?” he asks, splaying his hands. “Sorta my brand by now.” 

“It really isn’t,” Phil says. He takes a haphazard seat on Techno’s shoddy bed and holds his hands out. “C’mere - I’ll do your hair.”

Huh. That one certainly throws him for a loop. “Uh,” he says smartly. “You don't have to -”

“I want to,” Phil says, short and decisive. The look in his eyes is one of paternal finality. Techno holds the glare for as long as he can muster before ultimately crumbling, folding his hands in his lap as he sits in front of Phil. Phil scoots closer, just a smidge, but enough that Techno can feel the warm breath on his ear as Phil undoes the fastens of Techno's helmet.

Techno stiffens at the closeness. It’s been a while - almost too long, too long to be doing this - but Phil presses on, cradling the netherite with care for the thorns enchantments and setting it at Techno's side. He hesitates, then - Techno doesn't dare move, just eyes Phil's hand over his shoulder in his periphery.

“D’you -?” He's holding his hands up, inches away from the pink curls that tumble over Techno's shoulders.

“Uh -” he shakes his head. “Nah, nah. Go ahead.” The flush that clouds his face makes him feel like he's burning, but Phil grins all small and soft and begins running his fingers through Techno's hair.

At its core, the action is so achingly nostalgic that it tears a hole through Techno’s lungs. Phil's hands are gentle, working deftly at the tangles and knots and scratching soothingly at Techno's scalp. Techno finds himself relaxing into the touch near involuntarily.

When he was younger - young enough for training swords and romps in the forest with Wil, young enough for Phil to scold - fixing his hair became something of a nightly ritual. A moment from childhood, something to be treasured and held onto; the feeling of Phil's hands massaging his scalp, nimble fingers working expertly through any mats, the slight tug as each strand was worked into a perfect, even braid down the center of his back. Techno himself had never been very good at them.

Piglins are ironically hygienic mobs. Hybridization lessens the blow, but it's still there, much to Phil's concern and slight discontent. Coming home one day to every piece of metal in the house shiny enough to see his reflection in seemed to have had some kind of effect, and the many times Techno had almost frantically straightened Phil's robes or the swords along the wall probably hadn't helped. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, of course, but piglins also move in packs - and so when Phil had first done his hair, Techno had decided that it was an occasion that would become regular.

It's been years, now. Years on his own. Phil hasn't seen him in a long, long time, much less touched him, and the sudden intimacy of the moment paired with the hectic nature of the day is enough to make Techno dissolve.

“S’all matted,” Phil says softly. “What on earth did you get into?”

“A war,” Techno deadpans, and Phil chuckles.

“Think you'll cut it soon?” 

“Nnnope.” Taking any sort of blade to his hair is maybe the last thing he wants to do. The last time that happened was -

There it is. Dream duel, an inter-server rivalry bridged by competition. He won that, by the way - but with a wrong swing of Dream’s sword Techno's braid was laid out neat and pretty at his feet.

Phil had held him, that night. He’d stumbled through the portal with victory carved into his bones and loss into his skin. They'd all been very proud, worn it prominently on their sleeves, and hollered louder than he thought possible into the clearing of the cabin.

Phil had been the one to notice, post ushering Wilbur and Tommy to sleep. He’d taken him to the bathroom, washed and dried with careful hands, and taken a pair of scissors to the lopsided mess until it was something wearable.

“It was really hard,” Techno had said confessionally, whispered and honest.

Phil had hummed. “He's a good fighter. You're better, though.”

“I know,” Techno said. 

“I'm proud of you,” Phil said then. “Did you know that?”

Maybe that's one of the things he likes about Phil. For all his insistence on gentle fatherhood, the guy had never failed to tell it straight. Dream was good, yeah.

But Techno was better.

He never liked it short anyway, so he felt more than a little nauseous when he'd looked into the mirror the morning after the duel to find it didn't even cover the scarring on his neck. If Phil had taken notice of his near-constant checks of the mirror or the almost defensive way he held himself, he didn't say anything. Hell, even Wilbur and Tommy had stopped themselves from giving him shit for it. 

Should’ve worn it like a scar. Should've been proud of the jagged cut or the coil of hair that he'd left on the battlefield; a mark of a well-fought match and a well-deserved victory. Instead, it had just felt like a waste. It’s grown out, thank god, a horrifically curly mess that sits right about mid-chest; some sort of protection in it, he thinks.

“The withers were smart,” Phil says carefully - careful enough to feel like he's still skipping around the events of the day. “Smarter than I would have done. How long did you have to grind for the little shits?”

“Too long,” Techno says. The tone of the conversation is hinging on a brand of tactical appreciation, as if studying the work of a colleague. There's no mention of severed familial ties, no insistence that they carry weight; no, all that matters is the manner in which it was done, and Phil's blatantly impressed nature is enough for Techno to settle comfortably into the praise.

“More patience than I've got,” Phil mutters. “Should probably rinse this out, Techno. Sopping with fuckin’ lake water.”

“It never dries,” Techno sniffs.

“It’s - mate, it's not gonna dry either way.” He doesn't drag Techno towards the bathroom, though, which he considers a win. Instead, the silence settles once more between them, coiled like a snake over shoulders and between torsos. Phil begins pulling the hair back from his face into a comfortable braid.

Techno thinks he could melt like this. If he squints, the dulled torches on the walls sparkle into the warmth of a fireplace, the mattress beneath him into the soft cushion of some long-forgotten couch.

It’s too good to be true.  _ Only a little, _ Phil had said, and Techno knows that it's a lie.

“I blew it up,” Techno says. He feels the need to explain, somehow. “That’s what the withers were for.”

“I know.” There’s something tipping in his voice, something walking the knife's edge. Techno chews on the inside of his lip. 

“Okay,” he says eventually. “You’re dragging this out.”

“I’m not dragging anything out,” Phil says, sheepish and avoidant. 

“Alright,” Techno says, “tell me how close I am, then. You think I’m wrong, or evil or somethin’, and somebody - probably Wil, before he kicked it - told you to come sort me out.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Phil’s hands still, and then he’s unweaving the braid in Techno’s hair with a nervous flightiness. “I think you’re causing problems,” he corrects. “And I don’t know if you’re right to do it or not.” 

“I told them I would,” Techno says. “I told them I would.”

“You did. I respect it, Techno, I really do.” He's taken to running his fingers through the curls again, not bothering with the pretense of styling. Techno would be lying if he said he didn't feel like a child again, though it feels almost soured, now, blotted with the ink of underlying disapproval.

“But -?” Techno prompts.

“But,” Phil accepts, “you can't just - you can't just blow it all to shit because you want to, Techno. They've got lives. Morals. Families.” He laughs, just once. “You were probably part of ‘em.”

_ Not after this, though,  _ is left unsaid. Maybe it's a mercy that he leaves it out. Sure doesn't feel like one.

“I don't need them,” Techno says. It falls further into the  _ mean _ category than he intends it to, and whatever mockery of independence he was falling back on is stripped to selfishness instead.

“But they sure as hell needed you,” Phil says. The winces they give are twins by nature, down to the smallest tilt of the head. “ _Wilbur,_ Techno, really? You encouraged that?”

Techno snorts. “He was already out of it, to be fair.”

“So you  _ help him _ ,” Phil stresses. The warmth of familiar childhood comfort has left his voice, leaving instead the unsheathed blade of conniption. “You don't encourage him to go fuckin’ crazy.”

“He did what he wanted.”

“He's your younger brother -”

“And a perfectly capable adult -”

“- And you used him,” Phil says. The unspoken rage sizzles into his voice and drops the conversation dense into the widening chasm between them.

The glare Phil levels at him is heavy and near condescending. Techno wants to pluck it out of the air and snap it in half. Instead, he glares back, hoping that any of the intimidation he holds elsewhere translates.

“Why are you really here?” he asks. 

Phil swallows, but the tense line of his shoulders relaxes just a bit. “I want to help you,” he says.

Techno snorts. “That’s rich.”

“I do! I really do,” he insists. “Well - I haven’t made up my mind all the way, but I think I’m with you.”

“You  _ think _ you’re with me.”

“I think,” Phil starts again, frustration weaseling incessantly into his words, “that you’ve got the right idea. That nation - that, that place, what it stands for - all it's ever done is hurt them.”

Intriguing, to say the least. “So you want anarchy?” Techno asks.

“I want you all safe,” Phil snaps. “I want you all to stop fuckin’ fighting. You're my  _ boys _ . I don't -” his inhale is choked by emotion, “- I don't want you to kill each other.”

_ Wilbur is dead. Wilbur is dead. Wilbur - _

“Did he come back?” Techno asks. When he tries to meet Phil's eyes in the mirror, there's a purpose in his downturned stare. “Phil,” he says, almost growls, and Phil -

“He hadn’t respawned yet, after I. . . you know,” he says quietly. 

Techno goes stiff under his hands.

“He will,” Phil amends quickly, “it’s not hardcore, Christ Almighty - but he probably won’t be, uh, all there.”

_ Wilbur is dead and Phil killed him. _

It feels like every piece of his armor is choking him, suddenly, like he’s burning alive beneath the netherite - he writhes out of Phil’s grasp and begins tugging at the fastens of his shoulder pads, desperate to get at the chestplate beneath. 

“Techno -”

“Stop,” Techno bites, clawing at the tangle of leather straps, “stop, stop, I don’t -”

“Techno,” Phil says again, soft and sad and too much for him to handle, and Techno feels like all the intensity in the world has just snapped, like the pressure from thirty feet under the lake has finally crashed in over them.

“Why did you come back?” he asks, hauling himself to his feet. Something’s choking him, coiling up in his throat and spilling out into his mouth. “Nobody - we don’t  _ need _ you here, Phil, you’ve just made everythin’ worse -”

“Techno -”

“ _ Stop, _ ” he snarls, “stop, just -”

The shoulder pieces come upon the ground like a rocket against blackstone or trinitrotoluene against a nation. 

Techno wipes angrily at his face. The netherite’s all dented, clanged against the wall and skidded back in front of them like an animal or a weapon. Neither of them dares to move. 

“You never came,” Techno says weakly. “They needed help and you never came.”

Phil’s eyes are wide. Scared, Techno realizes. Maybe he’s right to be; maybe not. All Techno knows is that he hasn’t said a word, and the silence does the same amount of good that it has been for months.

“How should I have known?” Phil says, voice soft as if he's scared something will break. “Nobody called, mate. I didn’t -” his exhale is shaky, eyes shut. “But I’m here now.”

“And you killed him,” Techno counters.

“And I killed him,” Phil says without a breath of hesitation. “And he asked me to.”

Techno’s frozen. “You still did it -”

“God  _ fucking _ dammit, Techno,” Phil shouts. “Do you really think I wanted to fucking kill him?! Do you  _ honestly _ believe that?”

“I don't know,” Techno says, deathly quiet. “I don't know what you wanted.”

Phil’s mouth tightens. “Christ, it really has been a while,” he laughs, raking a hand down his face with a delirious, exhausted shake of his shoulders.

Butting heads with Phil is hardly his favorite pastime. As a child, maybe, but now it just feels unnecessary and brutish. Still, something writhes in his chest - foolish determination forcing him to go further. If - no,  _ when _ Phil snaps, then Techno will know. He can throw his faith back into himself and forget about his father and the memories he insists on existing as. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. Techno watches the way his words slice across Phil’s face, twisted with distaste. “You should’ve just stayed out of it like you already were.”

“No. I should have come earlier,” Phil insists. “This is my fault,” and it’s quieter, almost to himself, like a promise. 

The problem is that it’s not his fault. Nothing has ever been his fault in this god-awful war.  _ That’s _ the problem. 

“You shouldn't have come,” Techno says again. Some wild flame gnaws and chars at the underside of his ribcage, slips into every word like white-hot lava. “It's always like this. You can't just - you can't just show up and pretend everythin’ is perfect, can't just show up and treat me like a child who made a mistake -”

“I wasn't -”

“- Because it wasn't a mistake, Phil! I wanted this! And you showin’ up and slappin’ a bandaid over the situation isn't gonna fix the stupid crater -”

“ _ You were supposed to be better! _ ” Phil bellows. 

The world falls silent.

Phil looks at him with anger and regret and pure, boiling hate pinching his features. Where it's directed is anyone's guess, but the fire burning in his eyes is familiar only by the oil of guilt that feeds it. They're both breathing hard, pressed practically against opposite ends of the room; Phil’s wings stretch wall to wall, pulled tautly and fluffed with emotion. The growing divide between them makes a gaping maw of his floors.

“You were s’posed to be better,” Phil says again. “S’posed to be better than me.”

“And I'm worse,” Techno says. It should be a question. Instead, it’s a logical conclusion that leaves the room sunken and hollow. 

Phil doesn't say anything, mouth pressed into a thin line. Techno thinks that his soul’s formed a dense little ball, dropped like a marble into the bottom of his stomach.

“Cool,” Techno says, swallowing back the dryness of his tongue. “Cool.”

Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t - look, Techno, I just -”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Techno says. He hates how small his voice is. “I know what you mean.”

Phil looks at him, then. Really, really looks at him, and in the second that he does Techno understands just how level the ground is between them. 

There’s no blame to be pinned, not really. Whatever’s happened has happened, and neither of them are gonna be content with the way the board’s been set; Phil until he has his family back, Techno until the land’s gone lawless. There’s no settling, no middle ground, no blame, but they’re both intent on taking it in handfuls anyway. The only difference is that Phil has grabbed for the guilt, too. 

“Let’s get you out of this,” Phil says softly, grabbing for the fastens on Techno’s chestplate. Techno obliges, raises his arms over his head as Phil pulls it off of him, and they both work on tearing the other armor off of him, piece by piece of jagged metal. Phil cringes at the notable dents and scrapes in his leggings and vambraces. Techno only curls his lip at the damage he’ll have to hammer back into place. 

It’s quiet for the rest of the night, then. Phil doesn’t leave, and Techno doesn’t ask him to, and the chicken he pulls from the furnace is tasteless and overcooked. They both eat. 

“Just so you know,” Phil says quietly, shoving the frame of a bed together with a bit more force than necessary, “Wilbur didn’t tell me to do anything.”

“Huh?”

“When we were shouting and shit,” Phil clarifies. “You said you thought Wil sent me. He didn’t.”

“Oh,” Techno says. He’s not sure why he’s hearing it. “Okay.”

“And - and I really do wanna join you,” Phil says. “And it really was smart, the withers, and I’m - I guess I’m sorry, then.”

Techno only eyes him. Phil’s expression is near unreadable, but it’s easy enough to pick out the rotten, prying guilt. 

Phil always tells it straight. Techno thinks of Wilbur and blackstone and fireworks and skulls that crumble the first time you touch them. He thinks of the truth, and of blame, and of his father, trying to patch a family that’s lost some of its fabric. 

“We can talk in the mornin’,” Techno says, and runs his fingers over the new braid in his hair. “Just go to bed.”


End file.
